"If we had had any luck," said Quimbleton, "we would have blown him into a concussion. But anyway, that's a bonny scheme. We'll grant him a truce. Bleak, you're a newspaper man, just get hold of the United Press and let them know the armistice is signed."
Bleak smiled wanly at the thrust.
"All right," he said. "Let's go. But what's your idea, Miss Chuff? We must have something to base negotiations on."
"Wait and see," she cried gayly. "We'll talk it over as we go along."
Mrs. Bleak aroused her children, who had fallen asleep, and climbed back into the wheelbarrow.
"I don't know that I approve of that scheme of making Dunraven the Perpetual Souse," she remarked. "I can imagine what my poor mother would say about it if she were living. She came of fine old Kentucky stock, and it would humiliate her deeply to know to what a level we had been reduced."
"My dear Mrs. Bleak," said Quimbleton, as he hoisted his betrothed into the saddle and the pilgrims began to move, "I know of a great deal of good old Kentucky stock that has had a far worse fate than that in these tragic years."